


Gilded

by TeaCub90



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Family Fluff, Ficlet, Gen, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23935009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: They can’t go out, but the light reaches them anyway.A quiet afternoon in 221b.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	Gilded

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I am a fanfic author in an anxious, obsessive-compulsive state of mind and needed to create something soft and cuddly to break the cycle.

* * *

They spend the afternoon in Sherlock’s bedroom – Rosie, cooing over her stuffed bumblebee and reading a fairy-tale aloud to a patient, attentive Sherlock, with the careful precision of her four lovely years, while John lies across the foot of the bed. Doesn’t have his phone out, not anymore (not these days, never again, never a repeat of _those_ times) but he blogs about their latest case, his laptop keyboard clicking under the careful pecks of his fingers, glancing up every now and then, at Rosie, at Sherlock, a hooking tug at the corner of his mouth, for quiet days like this.

Eventually, Rosie gets grumpy, stomping around her section of the bed, demanding and Sherlock soothes her, recognising the need for a snooze; lays her down next to him and lets his baritone do the rest, telling her a much-exaggerated fairy-tale about a fiercely independent version of Cinderella who, rather than waiting for a Fairy Godmother and an overly-touted, dull Prince to solve her problems, ran away from her stepmother and stepsisters to become a pirate at sea. John closes his laptop, listens, leaning his head on a hand, cheers on Cinders as she takes on the vile, black-hearted villains on the waves, cheerfully recognising his own hypocrisy (in the same way that the Fairy Godmother provided opportunity and escapism for Cinderella in the original story, so did Sherlock for him so long ago, and much more besides).

The sun streams through the windows; they can’t go out, but the light reaches them anyway, in a dust-like spotlight. John considers the many afternoons of Sherlock, sitting in his chair in the lounge, bathing in the afternoon glow, every inch his glorious, clever perfection.

Rosie dozes off in time, a pencil clutched in her determined fist, a sword that she waved along in time to the spirited tale, her soft snores like the smallest melodies and John hums; shifts; puts his laptop on the floor as Sherlock removes the pencil and covers Rosie with his jacket before reaching for his own book on the bedside table. Biting his lip, John considers the best method to go about this and as Sherlock glances up quizzically, holds up a finger and grimaces as his muscles twinge after so long lying still.

‘Just a second,’ he whispers; shaking out his hands, waving away the pins and needles, he clears his throat as Sherlock’s mouth twitches to look at him and then crawls, determinedly, up the bed, a careful, shifting weight over Sherlock until they are looking – more or less, the sodding height difference is always obvious, even when lying down – eye-to-eye.

‘Hello,’ Sherlock says, crossing his fingers together, deep and cheerful.

‘Hello. Mind if I…?’ John leaves it open and gets a soft, assuring nod in return; lowers himself carefully to rest his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, familiar mauve under his cheek (soft shirts. _Really,_ surprisingly soft shirts); resettles comfortably. Propping open one lazy eye, he reaches out and puts a hand to a sleeping Rosie’s back, moves it up to stroke her hair. In the afternoon slip of sunlight, she’s golden; she throws tantrums and she jumps on their stomachs and she won’t eat broccoli, come hell or high water, and she’s utterly, utterly golden.

How did they manage to create something so brilliant, he wonders sometimes; wonders now, in fact, even while he’s laying his head over Sherlock’s heart, even as he feels the tender weight of long fingers stroking his own hair; a soft pair of lips to his scalp. They’re really just a pair of complete tits when it comes down to it, don’t really know up from down – but they still manage to stumble along together anyway.

He’s no complaints, he considers with a contented smile and he nuzzles softly into Sherlock’s chest, the proverbial grumpy tom-cat and he lets Sherlock read quietly, his eyelids drooping in the late afternoon warmth, and he drifts, in safety and in the very best of company.

(Just the three of them against the rest of the world).

*


End file.
